


this roller coaster ride (is an enticing one)

by shineyma



Series: roller coaster [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Season/Series 02, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 11:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6853051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The false SHIELD has some worrying plans for Jemma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this roller coaster ride (is an enticing one)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SapphireBlueJiyuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireBlueJiyuu/gifts).



> This is a birthday gift for the lovely and perfect Jan, who is precious and sweet and an absolute treasure. I hope your day was AMAZING, darling, and I hope you enjoy! <3 <3 <3
> 
> Happy Birthday!

Jemma is pulled out of her cell early in the morning on the fourth day after the false SHIELD takes the Playground.

She’s escorted to the bathroom down the hall from her quarters and instructed to shower, which is simultaneously an enormous relief (Vault D _does_ have a shower, but it also has 360 degree surveillance, and she wasn’t about to give these traitorous creeps a show) and an enormous _worry_.

As are the clothes she finds in the bag she’s handed before being left to her shower: some of her most flattering lingerie, a knee-length skirt she hasn’t worn in years, and a pink cashmere sweater she always pairs with a collared shirt, as the V-neck dips rather low.

There’s no collared shirt in the bag.

Worried though she is, after four days in the same clothes she’s not quite strong enough to turn down clean ones. So she showers and she dresses and, studying herself in the mirror afterwards, experiences a strange moment of disoriented fear.

She looks nice. She looks _pretty_ , which isn’t something she’s often felt, lately.

But she knows for a fact that this sweater was at the back of her closet, and the skirt…the skirt was probably in one of the boxes she still hasn’t got around to unpacking. The false SHIELD didn’t just grab clothes from her quarters at random; they went _digging_ for this outfit.

Whatever they have planned for her, they want her to look pretty for it.

That can’t possibly be good.

 

 

 

After her shower, her hands are bound (in front of her, at least; a small mercy) for a Quinjet flight as uncomfortable as it is long. Bobbi is the only present agent she knows, but as Bobbi is a traitor who was instrumental in the Playground’s fall, Jemma isn’t at all interested in talking to her.

And Bobbi, it seems, isn’t interested in talking to her, either. She’s looking pale and slightly ill; if she hadn’t spent the past few days regularly dropping by Vault D to plead her case, Jemma might say she were feeling guilty. As it is, Jemma can only assume that Bobbi knows and doesn’t like what’s about to happen to her.

It’s all very, very ominous.

Their destination is, essentially, the middle of nowhere: a shabby, apparently abandoned building surrounded by nothing but fields, as far as the eye can see. It must be a secret base of some kind, as the inside of the building is nicer than the outside would suggest. Certainly it’s in better condition than the Playground, which is its own kind of insult.

But the insult is quickly forgotten, as the circumstances seem too dire for nursing petty wounds. Jemma’s dread grows as she’s marched through a twisting maze of hallways—past a somewhat astonishing number of heavily armed guards—to an unmarked door.

There, Bobbi pauses, giving their armed escort a look that has them falling back.

“Look, this isn’t ideal,” she says, quickly and quietly, as her switchblade slices through the zip-tie binding Jemma’s wrists. “But everything’s gonna be okay, all right? You’re gonna be fine.”

It would be more encouraging if Bobbi didn’t sound so much as though she’s trying to convince herself, but Jemma doesn’t say so. She doesn’t want comfort from a traitor anyway.

“Okay.” Bobbi drags in a deep breath. “Just—be smart, okay? You’re the smartest person I know, you can—you can be smart.”

With that, she pushes the door open, and Jemma—rubbing at her sore wrists—follows her into what proves to be a meeting room. The conference table is small and square; Robert Gonzales and Anne Weaver are sitting on the nearest side, and opposite them—

Jemma stops in the doorway, some combination of shock and fury freezing her in place.

That’s Grant Ward. Gonzales is having an apparently amicable sit-down with Grant Ward _._ He invaded the Playground and staged a coup because he thought _Coulson_ wasn’t trustworthy, but he’s willing to meet with the _Head of Hydra_?

Jemma thought she couldn’t hate the false SHIELD more. It appears she was wrong.

“Still not hearing any reason I should stay,” Ward is telling Gonzales. He leans back in his chair, giving Jemma a quick once-over as she lingers at the door. It’s flatteringly non-sexual; he’s actually examining her as a potential threat, which makes him the only person in this room _not_ to have underestimated her.

If he weren’t so evil, she might like him a bit for that.

“And how are you involved in this?” he asks her, and just like that, the bottom drops out of Jemma’s world.

No. _No_. He did _not_ just say—he couldn’t have. He _can’t_ be.

Bobbi nudges her gently out of the doorway, further into the room, and the sudden clang of the apparently metal door slamming shut seems horribly fitting.

“I’m sorry,” Bobbi says softly. It only confirms Jemma’s worst fears.

Ward quirks an eyebrow. He asked her a question—a question she’s been waiting her whole life to hear—and is expecting an answer.

Jemma is, as Bobbi just reminded her, very smart. She can put the pieces of this horrifying puzzle together.

Two PhDs and ten years of invention and discovery, and this is what her worth comes down to in the false SHIELD’s eyes: a bargaining chip against her soulmate.

“As a peace offering, I imagine,” she says.

She surprises herself with the steadiness of her voice, but there’s no time to dwell on it; Ward’s eyes widen minutely, and then he’s up and around the table in seconds. The guards along the wall shift, but make no move to stop him.

Every horror Hydra has wrought under Ward’s leadership is playing in her mind on loop, and she finds she’s incapable of meeting his gaze—but no sooner has she looked away than gentle fingers are sliding under her chin to tilt her face up towards his.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” he asks.

Her skin is buzzing where he’s touching her, which is only further evidence of what she already knows. Something inside of her reaches out towards him, yearning. The soulbond is unconcerned with trifling things like the global chaos he’s wreaked; it wants only to be completed.

“Jemma Simmons,” she says, and his eyebrows go up.

“As in—?”

“Yes,” she interrupts before he can voice the nickname by which she was so well-known prior to the uprising. It’s been too long since she was one half of that whole; it’s only painful to think of, now. “I’m a biochemist.”

“Hmm.” He considers her for a long moment. She has the uncomfortable feeling that he can read her every thought in the lines of her face. “I’m Grant.”

“I know who you are.”

It’s rather more sharp than she intends—evil he may be, but she clearly has no friends in this room, and it would be safer not to antagonize him—but Ward appears unbothered by her tone.

“Yeah,” he says, “I guess you would.” He allows his hand to fall away from her face, and she just barely catches herself before she can sway after him as he leans back to give her another— _very_ sexual, this time—once-over. “Where’s your mark?”

Thanks to the low neckline of the top she was given—and doesn’t _that_ make so much more sense now, a very disgusting kind of sense—it’s easy to show him. She pulls her collar aside to display the _And how are you involved in this?_ scrawled (in what must be his handwriting) across her left breast, just above the cup of her bra.

Wearing an odd smile, he brushes his fingers over the words, and Jemma is forced to hold back a whimper at the pulse of _want_ that surges through her.

He’s her soulmate. They’re _made_ for one another. Her instincts don’t care that he’s evil, that he’s made terrifying progress towards world domination in the past year, or that she is in a horrible position of weakness. Not just her instincts; her very soul only cares that finally, after twenty-seven years of impatience, she’s found its other half.

She wants to flee, back to the relative safety of her cell. She wants to throw herself at him.

“Okay,” Ward says, turning back to Gonzales. “You’ve got my attention.”

Gonzales smiles grimly, not even sparing Jemma a glance. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Ward takes Jemma’s hand, and she doesn’t try to pull away. She simply follows, caught in his wake, as he returns to his end of the table. She doesn’t fight when he tugs her down to sit in his lap, either—though that, she will admit, has less to do with her confusing tangle of emotions and more to do with the clear discomfort on Anne and Bobbi’s faces.

Gonzales may be handing her over with no reservations, but it would appear that Anne and Bobbi are feeling at least _some_ remorse for how she might suffer as a result of their actions. An awful, spiteful part of her wants it shoved in their faces, and how better than this?

Let them see her trapped in the lap of an evil man as they make nice with him.

For all that Ward claimed Gonzales had his attention, however, it remains fixed firmly on Jemma. More specifically, he’s focused on her wrists. They very clearly bear the marks of the zip-tie that bound them earlier; she’ll be bruised tomorrow for certain.

“Been restrained lately?” he asks, frowning at her reddened skin.

“On the way here,” she says.

Ward’s eyes flicker to Gonzales and then back to her. “You’re not here willingly.”

As it’s not a question, she sees no need to respond. Which is just as well, really; Ward lifts her wrist to lay a kiss over her pulse, and the jolt it sends through her entire being steals her breath away.

“Agent Simmons is—” Anne starts, only to fall silent at a sharp gesture from Gonzales.

“You’re not with SHIELD?” Ward asks her, ignoring the byplay.

“ _I_ am,” she corrects, tipping her chin up proudly. She won’t be made to feel badly about her allegiances, even if they are in direct opposition to his. “ _They_ aren’t.”

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Gonzales says calmly, and she glares at him.

“No, it isn’t,” she says—very slowly, as though to a particularly dim child. “ _I_ am loyal to and an agent of SHIELD, which is run by former Director Fury’s chosen successor. _You_ are a lot of traitorous spies who have allowed good agents to _die_ for your stubbornness and paranoia.”

“ _Jemma_ ,” Anne says, in a tone which once would have cowed her.

Now, she meets her former mentor’s disappointed stare head-on. “How many Quinjets do you have?”

Anne’s gaze drops to the table top. She’s ashamed, it seems—as well she should be. Hartley and Idaho _died_ stealing a Quinjet for SHIELD, while these impostors had access to a whole _fleet_ of them. Something Mack and Bobbi knew perfectly well and chose not to share.

No true SHIELD agent could ever allow such a pointless waste of life.

Unlike Anne, however, Gonzales is unmoved by the question.

“Our losses, though tragic, are not what we’re here to discuss,” he says sternly. “Director Ward?”

Ward’s arm is warm and solid around Jemma’s waist, and his fingers have crept beneath the hem of her sweater to stroke soothingly along her side. It doesn’t appear _he_ minds the digression.

(And it’s only natural she would be comforted by her soulmate’s touch. It’s instinct and biology and if called upon, she could name every single one of the neurotransmitters involved in the wholly indescribable sensation the contact evokes. There’s no call to be embarrassed of the way she’s melted into him.)

“Jemma,” he says, and as closely as he’s holding her, there’s no hope he might miss how she shivers at the way his voice wraps around her name.

“…Grant,” she returns, hesitating slightly over the use of his first name.

It makes him smile. “We have a lot to talk about,” he says. His hand slides around to rest at the base of her spine as he loosens his hold on her waist. “There’s a lot to work through, considering your…loyalties.”

“Yes,” she agrees cautiously, uncertain as to where this might be going. “I suppose there is.”

“For now, though,” he says, “regardless of who is or isn’t SHIELD here, is it safe to say you’re not gonna be bound by the terms of any agreement I make with Gonzales?”

She doesn’t quite manage to keep her lip from curling at the thought. “ _Very_ safe.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Thought so. Markham?”

One of the men hanging back against the wall—a man that, like Ward, she knows very well by reputation but has only ever seen in surveillance footage—steps forward.

“Take Jemma to headquarters,” Ward orders, exerting gentle pressure against Jemma’s back until she stands. “You don’t mind, do you, sweetheart? I just don’t see any reason to make you sit through negotiations you’ve got no truck in.”

In light of the fact that _headquarters_ undoubtedly refers to a Hydra base, Jemma actually minds quite a bit. On top of that, there’s an awful hollow in her stomach at the thought of being separated from her soulmate so soon after meeting him…regardless of the many, many reasons she should want to stay far away from him.

But she’s not in a position to refuse. Not really. The false SHIELD has handed her over to him, dressed her up and presented her like a sacrifice to a capricious god, and that proves—conclusively—that she has no allies among them.

All she can do is hope…hope what? That the Head of Hydra will be a good soulmate? That, unlike Gonzales, he’s above keeping her against her will?

Even in her head it sounds ridiculous, but either way, this isn’t the time to force the issue.

“No,” she lies. “I don’t mind.”

“Good.” Ward kisses her knuckles, his smile widening when she bites her lip in response. “Don’t worry; my people will take good care of you. Won’t they?”

The last is addressed to Markham, who nods solemnly.

“Of course,” he says, and extends an arm towards the door. “This way, ma’am.”

“Don’t worry,” Ward repeats, and squeezes her hand once before letting go. “I’ll be home soon, and we’ll have all the time we need to get to know each other.”

That should terrify her—just as the number of guards who fall into step with her and Markham should terrify her. She’s well and truly trapped in Hydra’s clutches, and being its head’s soulmate is no guarantee that she’ll be treated kindly. She should be petrified about whatever’s going to happen next.

Instead, all she feels is bereft as she leaves the meeting room—and, more importantly, _Ward_ —behind.

She hopes he hurries home.


End file.
